Happy Birthday Roger
by Lyz
Summary: Written for speedrent. For Roger's eighteenth birthday, he and Mark go camping. Written from Mark's pov. Oneshot, preRENT.


**A/N: Written for speedrent. The prompt was "first times," and the story had to include a candle, stars, and the number eighteen. I still don't own RENT. Hope you enjoy it.  
**

"There's a first time for everything," Roger tells me as we pack up our sleeping bags and head out to the woods behind his house. Roger's confidence in things like this has never done much to comfort me.

Today is Roger's eighteenth birthday. It's the end of summer, just before our senior year at Scarsdale High will start. I don't know why this year, out of the ten years Roger has been my best friend, instead of going to a movie and staying up until six in the morning he wants to go camping for his birthday.

Years ago, before his dad left, Roger's family used to go on camping trips every summer. He always loved those trips. He would come home smelling like dirt and sweat and bug spray, grinning like mad, ready to tell me all the new ghost stories his dad had told him. After Mr. Davis left, Roger didn't go again.

Apparently until today.

I've never been camping before. I don't understand what's supposed to be so great about it. You put up a flimsy tent and sleep in a sleeping bag and piss in the woods because you don't have a bathroom. My parents would never, _ever_ go camping; they're too busy making sure the house is in a constant state of hospital-like sterility.

Even I'm feeling a little edgy about this. It's starting to get darker, and Roger still hasn't found this 'perfect place' he keeps talking about. Maybe a little edgy is an understatement. My mind is buzzing, thinking of all the possibilities this situation has of going horribly wrong: wild animals, flash flooding, tornadoes, famine, yellow fever, nuclear holocaust. Each one more completely ridiculous than the one before it, but try telling your mind to be rational when you're scared.

I look back at the path we've been taking, trying to remember it in case I have to run for my life. It takes me a minute to realize that Roger's stopped, and he's trying to get my attention.

"We're here," he says. I look around the meadow we've just crossed into, and I understand why Roger kept saying this place was perfect.

It's an open space, about the size of Scarsdale High's football field. The ground feels soft under my feet, and the grass is short and green. I suddenly feel like I know what explorers experience when they find something new. This place feels like it's still untouched by the lawnmowers and pesticides that have taken over everywhere else in Scarsdale.

Roger begins rolling out his sleeping bag and rifling through his bag of supplies. All that's left of the day's sunlight is the pinks and oranges of the west horizon. Stars are beginning to appear, twinkling to life as though waking from a restful sleep. I roll out my sleeping bag next to Roger's and lie down on it, gazing up at the sky that I haven't really looked at all summer.

Roger finally finds what he's been looking for. He pulls out a candle and a book of matches. I give him a puzzled look, and he understands my unsaid question. "The batteries were dead in the flashlight." He lights the candle and digs a little hole in the ground to hold it upright.

We munch on the rations we've brought: a bag of potato chips, some fruit snacks, a few cans of Coke. We hold marshmallows over the tiny flame of the candle in an attempt to make s'mores, burning our fingers and laughing at each other.

We don't talk a lot. We know each other so well we don't need words; our gestures do most of the talking. I know that look in Roger's eye, the one that means he's either about to tackle me or throw something at me. He knows that he has to keep me focused on the fun we're having, or I'll start worrying again.

Midnight comes and goes without notice. At three Roger blows out the mostly melted candle and we crawl into our sleeping bags.

"You had fun, right?" he says. I can tell he's exhausted, about to pass out. "You liked camping, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did," I answer honestly. I can hear his relief at my words, and I smile. "Happy birthday Roger."

He doesn't answer me, and I know it's because he's asleep.

I think I understand now why Roger wanted to go camping for this birthday. He and I both know that next summer we'll be working, and neither of us know for sure where we'll be going after that. I think this was his way of giving up his childhood, of getting ready for whatever is coming next.

I know that Roger will wake me up as soon as the sun rises. We'll pack up and walk back to his house. I know I'll be covered in bug bites, and that I'll call the shower first and use up all the hot water trying to scrub all the dirt off.

But I also know that wherever we both end up later in life, I'll remember this forever.


End file.
